


In Medias Res (RE-WRITE)

by ThisbeOpheliaOisin



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Abuse, Age Difference, Dark, F/M, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Torture, Older Man/Younger Woman, Out of Character, Pregnancy, Sansa has a difficult time through most of this, Underage Sex, Warging
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-23
Updated: 2021-01-11
Packaged: 2021-03-02 21:14:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 8
Words: 13,877
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24333421
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThisbeOpheliaOisin/pseuds/ThisbeOpheliaOisin
Summary: Tywin Lannister is confronted with the inadequacies of his children when Cersei and her fool of a son sell the key to the North, Sansa Stark, to the Boltons. Tywin sets out to retrieve the Stark girl and in doing so, secure his own legacy. His final act as the Great Lion will be winning his grandson's war and creating a new Lannister line through this timid and frail Northern Lady.This is the story of Sansa Stark as she is used for her titles and claims in the name of legacy and royalty. This will be her as a more timid version of herself.This is a rewrite of my original work by the same name. This version will be darker and follow an arc leading to Sansa ultimately ending up with Jon.
Relationships: Jon Snow/Sansa Stark, Tywin Lannister/Sansa Stark
Comments: 51
Kudos: 226





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I am rewriting my first version of In Medias Res because I made a detailed plan and I want to follow it from beginning to end. This will be a dark story with dark characters who do bad things so, heads up. I will put notes in the beginnings of chapters with especially troubling themes. I had gotten caught up in my schoolwork and lost track of my first version but I find I have time on my hands and I would like to write out this whole narrative in full. I still consider this to be my first fan fiction so be nice with your criticisms (but I do love feedback so definitely give it to me). I intend to update nearly every day if I can or at the very least, every week. I also have been really loving Reylo fics right now and I want to right one so let me know if you would read that or if you have ideas for that because I want to be more regular at this. Enjoy!

Jaime sat astride Honor watching the battle wage. He hated the North with a passion he did not know he could possess towards a geographic location. His father had insisted though, that he accompany the Great Lion to remedy the poor choices of his golden sister. Cersei had a way of letting her own passionate rage and hate dictate rather important matters, uncaring about the wake of destruction she left behind. That is why now, instead of in the Red Keep sipping on the finest of Dornish wine, he is sitting on his war horse staring at the Stark stronghold, surrounded by flames and dying men.

His father, sitting next to him, was observing the siege with the kind of strategic calm he always displayed when executing one of his plans. Tywin Lannister was in the midst of his third, and possibly his final act. Tywin Lannister was fighting his grandson’s war. He was in the habit of placing the pieces exactly where he needed them to be and toppling them for his own benefit- he was not in the habit of his own children destroying those plans, of all people. Jaime had come close in becoming a King’s Guard and Tyrion had always been a disappointment, from birth. Cersei thought that she was smarter than she is and that, combined with her impulsiveness and arrogance made a dangerous combination. Despite this, he had been able to side step the faults of his children and gaine near total authority over the lands of Westeros. He adapted and overcame the trivial issues his children presented, at least that is what he thought. 

His daughter, in her hot headedness and foolishness, egged on by her unstable king of a son, had pawned off his key to the North. The piece he had so meticulously acquired and defended, sent to the brute Ramsay Bolton because his daughter and grandson could not manage to think critically or see past their own noses. In her rash action she had proven herself and her son unworthy of carrying on his legacy. Tywin, once again, made the necessary plans to adapt and overcome in order to preserve the most important component of his life-his legacy.

His three children were a drunkard, a glorified middle aged bodyguard incapable of producing legitimate heirs, and a half crazed stubborn woman ruled by her mad son- all of them were unworthy of his name and legacy. Tywin was approaching old age but he still had time to execute his final act, his salvation. It would be the most notorious thing he has ever done and the most controversial however it would also be the most rewarding and the most important. That is why he sat atop his war horse in front of the Northern stronghold, fighting his own allies. Cersei had sold the key to the North to the Boltons and Tywin, along with Jaime, had come to retrieve her. Tywin was not halted by the poor choices of his children- he intended to make a new future. 

He watched as his men infiltrated the proud northern castle swiftly and quietly. He was repulsed- Ned Stark, for all of his lofty ideals and hedonistic values, he would have never allowed for such a swift military takeover. The Bolton guards walking the perimeter were disabled immediately and the castle was then suddenly a crowning beacon in the dead of night. The outer windows displayed to all those within range the inadequacy of the Boltons. Tywin watched and waited as his man paved the way for him. He had been taking a risk when he appointed Bolton as Warden of the North considering the rumors about his bastard son but Tywin set the pieces up as he needed them and he would take them out too. 

He felt the anticipation fuel him, as he always felt in the midst of battle. He felt his blood rush and his palms sweat. He knew, as he had when he destroyed the Reins and the Tarbacks as a young man, that he would be winning the night and he would be winning absolutely. When his men gave the signal he began his entrance into the castle of Winterfell. 

Jaime, mere steps behind him, was not becoming drunk of the spilling of blood like his father. Jaime didn’t know the extent of his father’s plans, why they were there really. He couldn’t see why the northern girl was worth the amount of man power they were inflicting on the Boltons at the moment. At the rate they were the castle, the people of the North would be lucky if they rebuilt within the next century. His father had always been a hard man, even when Jaime was a child. When Cersei had informed Tywin of her decision though, Jaime had felt a fear stronger than anything he had encountered in his adult life. Tywin had tolerated Jaime’s indiscretions as well as his siblings’ for the most part. Family always would come first, or so he thought. But something changed in Tywin’s eyes that day when Cersei had violated Tywin’s maneuvering of the Stark girl. He had quickly and brutally cut into Cersei and Joffrey for their misstep. “I was doing what is best for the family.” Cersei’s defense, the weak spot for Tywin, did not hit its mark and Tywin looked at the lot of them and replied simply with “I will be ending your disgrace to this family.” He had stormed out of the throne room, still clothed in his Lannister crimson war clothes-blood still on his shoes. If the maids of his rooms were to be asked about that night they would tell you that they knew nothing of the royal family’s personal lives and would never dare to eavesdrop-but they would say that the next morning, when they entered to leave the Great lion his first meal, the entirety of his chambers were destroyed, as if the war in Westeros was waged in that room alone. 

Jaime still felt this fear as he followed his father through the gates of Winterfell. They stepped over the bodies of Bolton men, decorated in the insignia of the flayed man. Tywin walked with purpose. He was a man securing his legacy and it all rested with a fourteen year old Northern girl who was currently in the hands of a deranged bastard. Had he not been in the middle of such an important watershed moment in his life he might have laughed at the irony-that he, in a twisted way, was this girl’s white knight. He was certainly her salvation from the Bolton monster, but he acknowledged that he was no sanctuary for her. 

The soldier who had found her was moving quickly to show the two Lions where their prey lay. The solid mahogany door indicated that they stood in the wing of the nobility. Jaime was struck, once again, by how dark the castle could feel. The Starks really chose a theme and stuck with it, even in their decor. The splintering of wood was the sound of victory to Tywin Lannister. Behind this door was the lynchpin in all of his plans. She would be, in a distorted way, his own savior. The door flew back into the stone wall inside and revealed a simplistic bedroom setup-at least to the eyes of a southerner. Fur pelts decorated the walls and the floor, a tapestry depicting the Heart Tree of the Old Gods still hung above the bed, albeit it was old and apparently damaged. The real eyecatcher to the three men who had barged in, however, was the girl lying in the center of the bed. Lit only by the moon, the girl appeared ethereal among the fur. It appeared to Jaime as if she herself were a celestial being. He watched his father descend upon her and he grew increasingly curious about the hunger in his father’s eye. 

They all had assumed she was asleep but they were proven wrong as Tywin neared her bedside. “Please, don’t.” It was almost whispered out and with such a pitiful voice that had Jaime been the one approaching, he would have halted. Tywin however, did not. “You are to come with us, Lady Sansa. Do not make this more difficult than it has to be.” The commanding tone of Tywin Lannister could have brought any man to his knees, and this girl would not be an exception. The fact that she did not jump up at his order, though, angered him. He felt the exhilaration of the battle combine with his indignation at her apparent defiance into a dangerous sort of rage. “Now. Sansa.” He would not continue with this nonsense any longer, his plans would not wait for the whims of a child. He became more and more enraged until he heard it. 

“I cannot my Lord.” 

“I am afraid you must, My Lady.” He said it with a clear undertone of threat. 

“I do not mean that I will not, My Lord, I only mean that I am injured and I cannot get up.”

She must have sensed Tywin’s growing fury because her already hoarse voice wavered as she gave her dismal explanation to the Great Lion while in her vulnerable state, atop her bed in her nightshift. Jaime wondered at the nature of the injury and if it would be affecting the plans of the Great Lion. Tywin had the same line of inquiry and quickly asked after the nature of her injury. 

“My feet my lord. He has cut my feet. I cannot walk, I have been unable for a week.” 

Tywin moved towards the end of the bed and removed the coverings. His hand grasped her slim ankle, encircling it entirely and making Sansa flinch. 

“Hold still, My Lady.” He said it with a more subdued tone now that he understood her actions. Jaime thought it was like watching a great fire extinguished by a cooling wave. The reminisce of the destruction was there and held potential, but it was quelling. Tywin inspected her foot and found them both to be marred by jagged lines, clearly made by a sharp knife and possibly a heated prod. She was certainly right, she would be unable to walk-for a while to come, but his worst fear that she would be gravely injured was not realized and that provoked him to keep moving forward. 

“I know it is improper my Lady, but I will have to carry you out of here. The Boltons have betrayed me and they are no longer fit to hold the North. You were never supposed to come here-my fool of a daughter has let her emotions rule her for the last time. Do you have many belongings here?” 

“No, my Lord. I have some clothes but that is it.” 

“Alright.” He moved up the bed and motioned for her to wrap her arms around his neck. She hesitated a moment too long. 

“Now, we do not have time for dawdling.” 

She wrapped her arms around his neck and he pulled her body out from under the covers and against his chest. She was emaciated, he could see now, and barely clothed by the night shift she wore. Despite the heated walls they stood within she shivered. 

“Jaime, give the Lady your cloak.” 

Jaime, somewhat struck by all that he had just witnessed, hastily removed his crimson war cloak and laid it over Lady Sansa haphazardly. He watched as Tywin strut out of the room while carrying her. He moved with a new and invigorated purpose and that purpose was tucked safely in his arms, awaiting his next move.


	2. Chapter 2: Excelsior

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm liking my plan for this story more and more as I write it so I'm definitely excited for it to be read. I really love comments and input so if you have it- don't be shy! I'm also considering writing a Kylo Ren/Rey and or an Oberyn Martell/Sansa Stark fic. If you like those or have any input I would love to hear it. Also, side note, if anyone has any fic recommendations I am happily accepting because I want to read them but I feel like I have hit a wall finding new ones lol. Anyway, enjoy!

Jaime remembered the reverence he felt for his father growing up. The golden beacon for the Lannister name, Tywin Lannister was always something Jaime aspired to emulate. Even in his rebellion as a King’s Guard, Jaime set out to make his father proud-even though he frequently failed at the task. Watching his father carry the Northern maiden brought Jaime back to this state of reverence. Tywin looked proud, which in itself was not unusual, but this pride was god-like. His father was in the early stages of seniority and yet the man appeared taller, his shoulders broader and his head held higher. Jaime wouldn’t be surprised in the slightest if the Rains of Castamere began playing as they made their way out of the castle and into the brisk northern night. 

The Northern girl herself appeared different than when Jaime had previously met her-although that meeting had been brief and his focus had most definitely not been on the twelve year old Stark girl fighting with her sister. She didn’t appear much aged. Her face, illuminated by the moonlight, had lost the roundness of childhood as had her frame which was now as thin as a rail. Jaime had seen starvation in his many years fighting wars and that girl was most definitely suffering from it. She still was in only her nightshift, a grey woolen dress that seemed to have been outgrown as it now sat just below her knees. Her skin, which had a sickly grey pallor, reflected the moonlight. This made it quite easy for Jaime to make out the starkly contrasting crimson slashes on the soles of her feet, dangling off of the elbow of Tywin Lannister. A curious and rather barbaric method of torture that he had never used and had rarely seen. Jaime certainly could not make out the benefit of inflicting such pain on a girl of her size, age and stature-other than to keep her from running. 

That thought made the salted beef he ate for supper rise up through his abdomen. She had most likely run and that Bolton boy, who was rumored to be a few eggs short of a dozen, was the reason why. Jaime’s curiosity around the Stark girl was now coming to a fever pitch. He knew that she was not supposed to be in the North, that the mismanagement of her by his sister and nephew were the reason she was sent it here. It begged the question, that if Cersei wanted to inflict harm on her-why would she choose the girl’s own homeland? The answer, Ramsay Bolton was the worst kind of pain available that Cersei could think of- a malicious, apathetic bastard who would have full possession over the girl’s body and who had the tools to break her mind. 

Jaime was trying to do the math on how long she had been up here, at the hands of him. They had only been witness to her feet but the rest of her body likely bore the marks of her ‘marriage’. Jaime was unsure of his father’s plan but he could deduce from the burning castle and the kidnapped bride-or rescued, he supposed- that she would not remain married to him any longer. It was probably about half a year that the Lady was with Ramsay Bolton. Jaime didn't fancy himself an enthusiastically empathetic person but he still felt something deep inside him at that thought. And although he loved his father, he pitied Lady Sansa for jumping out of the frying pan only to be carried away by the head of Jaime’s own pride right into the fire. 

Tywin had never cared for sniveling maids or frail women. They slowed him down and proved to be inconvenient, at best. He was somewhat surprised to find, as he and his small party descended from Winterfell, that the girl he carried displayed no such proclivities. She did not cry nor whimper. She did not display a haughty exterior either, as if to prove herself brave despite it all. It was a very vacant disposition that she exuded, laying limply in his arms in the very same manner she had meekly accepted her own person changing possession in the midst of battle. If he believed in spirits and souls he would wager that hers had fled. 

A cursory glance revealed evidence of starvation, the obvious mistreatment which likely extended past her feet and a psychological effect the Tywin now had to maneuver around. They made their way further until they reached the clearing where the center of the operation was settled. Tywin had elected to bring a wheel-house in the event that Lady Stark could not ride- and once again his forethought proved to be exceptional. The soldier accompanying them opened the door to the economical cabin of the carriage and Tywin stepped up to place Sansa Stark within. At least, that was his intention but as he motioned to let go, intending to leave her and make way to moving his army back to King’s Landing, he found he was unable to extract her from his person. He tried once more to lean away but Sansa Stark had her arms firmly wrapped around his neck. It was almost childlike in its clingy nature and Tywin had no patience for it. He especially had no patience for the snicker disguised as a cough that had undoubtedly come from Jaime. 

“Lady Sansa, this is childish. Let go.” He could have sworn the frail arms of the waif of a girl tightened even more. 

“One might argue that I am a child, My Lord, and so my behavior is quite appropriate.” Tywin did not find this amusing in the slightest. His son, however, could no longer muster up the weak facade of a cold and outright chortled at this comment. 

“One might argue this. No one present will, though, so I must say again and for the final time-Let. Go.” Although her words had sounded somewhat sardonic, his command made her tense up in what was unmistakable fear. And so, in a lower, gentler tone, he said, “We will not leave you alone, My Lady. We must make preparations to take you away from this place. That is all.” She pulled back some and searched his eyes in what might have been the first instance of eye contact the two of them shared in clear light. Whatever she had been searching for- truth, honor, safety- she must have found it because her arms released the impressive amount of force they had been exerting. 

The ordeal appeared to weaken her considerably as she slumped into the padded seats of the carriage. She had pulled Jaime’s cloak further around her until it sat properly on her shoulders. The crimson clashed with her burnt orange hair and the fabric appeared to swallow her. She was the picture of a damsel in distress and Tywin had not anticipated being affected by her predicament-bestowed upon her by his own daughter. He could not linger on whatever he felt about it, though, he had a plan to execute and it started with leaving the gods-forsaken North. Tywin turned to Jaime before shutting the door of the carriage. 

“I would like you to ride with Lady Sansa, Jaime.”

Jaime was mildly shocked by this request. First, because it was a request, uttered softly and without force. Second, because it was a thoughtful request that was entirely out of character for the father that he knew. Jaime had seen the girl though, he had felt something while contemplating her pain and he did not respond with the cheek that he might have in any other circumstance. He nodded once and began to remove his bulky armor to be able to sit in the cramped space comfortably. Once he had handed off the metal pieces to his squire, he moved forward to join the Lady Sansa in the cramped space. Clothed now in his sweat stained gambeson and britches, he looked at the hunched little girl across from him and tilted his head some. He tried to give her his most charming grin. She did not respond much to it except to widen her eyes, as if pushing them out of her bony face. Jaime decided on a different approach. 

He held out his hand, palm up, waiting for her noble instincts to do the work. Without much hesitation her spindly hand rested in the palm of his own hand- he lightly grasped her fingers and bowed down to kiss the back of her hand gently. 

“It is a pleasure to meet you, My Lady.”

“You, as well, My Lord.” Jaime smiled truthfully. He had cracked her exterior just enough to know that he was dealing with a Lady through and through. He found it charming and suddenly did not mind spending the journey from the frozen wasteland of the North to King’s Landing attempting to build on this success. 

Tywin had moved to the front of his now assembled party and began the orders for departure to the capital. He trusted Sansa in the hands of his son. Phase one of his plan had officially been a success and now, as the company of soldiers behind him marched homeward bound, the carriage carrying his golden son and future bride moving securely along with them, he allowed the excitement of battle and the victory of his conquest to well up within him. Like the Reynes and the Tarbecks in his youth, he could practically see his success, leading him along the King’s road, powered by the red-headed maiden in the carriage behind him. 


	3. Chapter 3: Fides

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are mentions of abuse in this chapter. Enjoy!

The journey back to the capital took longer than the journey North. The party had to accommodate the slow moving wheel-house which held the key to the North, the young Sansa Stark, and the Lion of Lannister, Jaime Lannister. As the days passed and the air became warmer Jaime wondered more and more about his silent companion. His father had tasked him with riding in her carriage which indicated that she was of importance to the man, that and the fact that he had ridden north to liberate her from the Boltons. Jaime was never the brightest Lannister but even he could sense that these two actions added up to something simmering beneath the surface. 

He had attempted questioning his father at night when they made camp. She slept in the carriage and Jaime pitched a tent as the other soldiers did. Around the fire, after eating their evening meal, he sat next to his father in silence. Jaime observed out of the corner of his eye, as Tywin stared into the fire, the flowing embers illuminating his emerald irises to a nearly inhuman shade. Jaime wondered briefly if his own eyes were reflecting in the same manner as his father. He then wondered what the young Sansa Stark’s eyes would look like in the fire. In the light of day her eyes were startling enough. They were pale enough that when she looked him in the eye, however rare that was, Jaime wondered briefly if the Gods he didn’t believe in were peering at him and judging his life in full. 

Jaime’s wondering must have become less discreet than he meant because Tywin turned to him with an obvious air of annoyance. 

“Yes, Jaime?”

Suddenly those eyes, mirrors of his own, were peering at him directly. Jaime figured he might as well ask his father directly about his motives. There was no worst case scenario that he couldn’t handle, at least, he hoped. They were about a day's ride from the capital now which meant that if his question was considerably worse than he calculated, he only had to endure a day of awkward tension. 

“What are we doing here, Father?”

His natural instinct was always to revert into a sarcastic nihilistic man who cared little for motives or impact. Right now, however, he could feel the importance of his father’s answer. Tywin Lannister never acted erratically and only ever made decisions based on profit. The cost of leaving the capital so soon after returning, bringing soldiers along with him, and confronting and cutting down his own ally was, to say the least, costly. This meant that Tywin Lannister must see a profit greater than the immediate effort Jaime had been witnessing. That profit, if it was of such a great proportion, would undoubtedly be affecting Jaime’s life as well and he was becoming anxious about being kept in the dark. 

“We are eating dinner, Son.” 

Jaime would have rolled his eyes. Tywin Lannister, for all of the hate he harbored toward his youngest son, was more similar to him than anyone would care to say to his face. Or, Jaime supposed, Tyrion was more similar to Tywin-something he would never dare say to Tyrion either. Jaime sat up straighter and planted his feet firmer. He would have an answer. He would have some control over his life, or, he would know what his life would become at the very least. 

“I mean why have we just uprooted your foothold in the North. Why have we taken the Stark girl back with us. What is it that you are going to do with her? She’s very clearly been-Gods, who knows what happened to her with the Boltons! What use does a fourteen year old noble Lady have to you or any of us? Her family is effectively gone- she only has her claim to the North now and we are ripping her away from the land now. Joffrey is engaged to the Tyrell girl now so she can’t play queen anymore. Father, I know you have a plan. I just want to know how she can be useful past marrying and popping out more Starks to some minor Lord?”

Jaime knew immediately he probably went overboard. He definitely could have phrased a lot of it better, but even though it was crude, he asked his question. 

“Lannisters, Jaime.”

“Excuse me?” 

“She will be ‘popping out’ as you say, Lannisters. Not Starks, Lannisters.”

Jaime liked to think of himself as a man of a strong constitution. He was battle hardened and he possessed a strong stomach. He was approaching nearly four decades alive and not much could surprise him. This however, very much made all of those self-perceptions slip away. Tywin Lannister planned to marry the girl to a Lannister. Jaime ran through every Lannister available and there were not many options, none of them good. There was Tyrion, his younger brother. He loved Tyrion dearly but his brother was a chronic drinker and a frequent customer at whore houses. Tyrion was gentle when need be but he was also old enough to be Sansa Stark’s father. There was their cousin Lancel, close to her age and a possibility but he was half obsessed with Cersei and a weak willed man. Not to mention, he was an indirect relation and posed to real gain. Tywin might’ve meant Tommen but Tywin seemed to mean she would be having Lannister babies _soon_ and Tommen was years away from any of that. Perhaps his father meant to cast aside Jaime’s vows and give the Stark girl to _him._ Jaime could stay up all night naming different reasons why _that_ was possibly the worst case scenario.

“She will be marrying one of us then.” Jaime said it softer than he thought was capable of. He didn’t know which scenario was the worst but he did know that, no matter what, Sansa Stark’s suffering was far from over, and that made him feel something painful in his gut. 

“She will.”

“May I inquire as to who she will be marrying? So I know what to get the happy couple for their nuptials.” His heart was not in the barb though which was revealed through the lilting tone he used. And nothing, not in this life nor the next one could have prepared Jaime for his father’s answer. 

“She will be marrying me Jaime, upon our arrival in the capital.” 

Tywin maintained his eye contact with his son. Where Jaime had before seen the fire enhance those emerald eyes, he now saw the fire engulf them. It was as if he was daring his son to question his declaration. 

Jaime had not pictured this scenario at all, but now, it was the only thing he could see. That waif of a girl sitting next to his father at a grand feast, surrounded by no one that she knew or loved. He could see the marriage itself, Tywin standing tall at the altar of the sept with Sansa Stark next to him, her head barely reaching his shoulder. He could see Sansa Stark in the Lord’s chambers, in the bed of Tywin Lannister. It was as if he himself was standing there, watching as those pale blue eyes bore into his soul-the Gods themselves judging him. Sansa Stark at a mere fifteen, made up only of knobby knees and scrawny arms, entirely encompassed by the bulge of her stomach indicating that Tywin had been successful in his scheming. Sansa Stark would be his mother? A girl young enough to be his daughter. Her children, the ones his father clearly intended on giving her, would be his siblings? 

Jaime felt faint. His father had done terrible things without shame throughout his life. Jaime had done terrible things shamelessly as well. Both of them would continue to do so but this, this was beyond what he ever thought his father was capable of. She was a child. It was painfully obvious she had suffered at the hands of Bolton. She flinched whenever a man came near her carriage or when the hustle and bustle of a camp of soldiers inevitably produced sudden loud noises. Jaime was not confident that his father could responsibly handle the girl in any sense of the word. 

“You do not approve.” Tywin did not seem to be offended by this prospect. Jaime decided to be honest. 

“I do not, no.” 

“You will surely not be the only one.” 

“Then why are you doing it. She is a child. You could marry her to Tommen. She is just a child. I-I do not know how to handle this decision father. You must see the implications. That it is wrong. Even for us.” Tywin looked away from him now, into the night as if contemplating what he had said. 

“I understand the implications Jaime. I understand my decision, both its costs and its benefits. I need to secure the North now while the Stark boy is fumbling through the war. His sister, an heir to the North and the Riverlands, and quite likely the Veil soon, is the ideal candidate. She is of marrying age, just barely, although her physical state is worse than I expected. I know she is young Jaime. Fourteen years old is a child, I make no claim against this. She had her moonblood before she left the capital though and this war needs to end. The Lannister name must be upheld. I know you think of me as a monster but I do not intend to abuse her. She will be treated as the Lady she is. She will want for nothing which, given her name and the way this war is progressing, is a gift in itself. I intend for our children to inherit the Rock. I intend for our children to inherit nearly half of Westeros, through our family names alone. I know it is not right and I do not revel in it. But when our conventions are stripped away and this choice is evaluated carefully-this is the most profitable decision for us and the kindest path for her.” 

Jaime made a pitiful sound at that statement. “I do not think she will see it that way, father.” Tywin nodded his head in agreement. “At first, she won’t. Her brother will die soon though, as will her mother. Her father is dead, her sister presumed to be dead as well. Her younger brothers were killed by the Boltons before she arrived. She does not have many better prospects. She may even find consolation in making her own family, given how much she has lost at such a young age. You saw the state she was in during her marriage to the Bolton bastard. My understanding is that he draws pleasure from pain and he used her for six months for that pleasure. If her feet are any indication of her treatment, I think the Red Keep is her safest bet at the moment. When she falls pregnant I will send her to the Rock and remove her entirely from this war. I mean it Jaime when I say I do not do this to be cruel. But I am also realistic and I do not do it as a great kindness. She is an important piece to ending this war favorably and I would be a fool to pass her by because it would make the court uncomfortable.” 

Jaime merely nodded. He couldn’t form any semblance of a response. He did not know if his father’s words were logical or manipulative. She certainly was coming from a desolate place, but that didn’t guarantee Tywin was any better. Living near Cersei and Joffrey would also prove to be hellish. Tyrion would likely have a field day with this turn of events. Their new mother was fourteen years old and appeared to have limbs slim enough that a moderately sized man could snap them if he felt the need to do so. Jaime had many questions too. What would happen when Tywin died? It would likely be well before the girl was even close to Jaime’s age. How would Tywin handle Cersei and Joffrey? Or the remaining Starks? How was he certain that she would not die in childbirth and make this entire plan moot? These thoughts were overwhelming Jaime now. 

“You will be caring for her also, Jaime.” As if Jaime needed more sweeping surprises to startle his heart. 

“I will be doing what, Father.” 

“Our marriage will not be a jest, Jaime. She will be the wife of the Hand of the King. She will be the Lady of Casterly Rock, Winterfell, the Veil and the Riverlands. I have no illusions about your sister’s feelings toward the girl or her son. I intend to keep Lady Sansa within the castle but I will feel more comfortable if she is protected by someone I trust. That will be you, my son. Now and for the rest of her life. I will likely pass before her and I would be much better off knowing that she, and our children, are left in capable hands committed to their safety.” Jaime was shocked for a number of reasons. The most prominent one, though, was that Tywin Lannister was asking him now, alone on the King’s Road to choose this girl over everyone else for as long as he lived. Or rather, he was softly demanding it. 

Jaime peered at his father again. This man, who had lost his first and only wife so long ago, was asking Jaime now to prevent that from ever happening to Sansa Stark. His motives were selfish but the action itself was compassionate. Jaime was transported back now to seeing the soles of her feet. Jagged slashes of red angrily contrasting against the soft pale tissue. Standing at her full height she reached the middle of Jaime’s chest. Tywin was not wrong in the assumption that she would need protection. She would need _a lot_ more than just protection if she was going to endure the Lannisters and her new marriage. Jaime nodded his head at this declaration. He would do this for his father, for the girl too and maybe even for himself. Perhaps he would regain his lost honor through this girl. Jaime was startled when his father stood up in front of him, extending his right arm to Jaime. Jaime returned the gesture, grasping his father’s arm at the elbow-firmly but silently agreeing to fulfill this promise to his Father, to his name and to his honor.


	4. Briseann an dúchas trí shúile an chait.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! I'm sorry this took so long, I had some writer's block. I hope everyone is safe and healthy. The chapter title is an Irish proverb. It means Heredity breaks out in the eyes of the cat. I have loved your comments and I will be responding to them! Thank you again! Enjoy!

Sansa found herself fantasizing throughout their final night on the King’s Road. She thought of her brother Robb and her mother. She pretended that none of them ever left the North. She imagined a life in which King Robert never called on her father. Her beloved Lady was never taken from her. Arya was still with her, driving her up the wall with her incessant bothering. She imagined Bran never fell, that both he and Rickon were alive and well, making trouble in the summer snow. The deaths of Rickon and Bran still made Sansa ache. They were so young and so small. Their only crime was their name and their presence in Winterfell. She even imagined Jon, dark and looming as he was, joining all of the Stark siblings in the snowy courtyard of Winterfell while their parents watched from the keep. 

If she had the opportunity, she would go back. She would refuse King Joffrey in her own right. She would settle in the North, with an established Northern Lord’s son. She would never curse the simple wool clothes she owned or the silent beauty of Winterfell. She would never again take for granted the life within her native keep, the welder, the master of arms, her own siblings or her parents. If she could go back, she would and she would not regret it. She knew now that there was nothing to gain on the road she was on. Her life was not her own. She was frequently accused of being vapid and empty-headed but even she knew with every fiber of her being that her foreseeable future was firmly in the hands of the Lannisters. 

Even on her silent ride south, while swimming in her own ruminations, a Lannister sat as her watcher. Sir Jaime Lannister had been her constant companion throughout their journey. Sansa mostly observed the landscape passing by, but occasionally she chanced a look at him. The son of Tywin Lannister fit his legend well, in appearance at least. Had Sansa been younger and once again naive, she would have seen Jaime Lannister as similar to the knights in her own stories. He had the same mythical golden hair the Lannisters were famed for. He was tall, as tall as her own father had been. Ned Stark’s height used to be the shield between young Sansa and the world. His battle hardened body held the hounds at bay while Sansa and her siblings played quietly in their childhood home. Now, a different man’s height and menacing body shadowed her like her own father’s had but this man provided no comfort, only fear. That was life, Sansa supposed-pain and fear and sorrow. 

The only intriguing and perhaps redeeming factor of the Sir were his eyes. A pure green that made him unquestionably a Lannister. When the light hit his eyes they took on a divine glow. Sansa was equally mesmerized and chilled by them because within those eyes and within that face she could clearly see Joffrey and Cersei. She could see the brutality she faced on her own while alone and stranded in the capital. Looking into the eyes of a Lannsiter was like looking into the eyes of the Stranger themself. Sansa may have once worked to feel a sense of normal in her new predicament, she might have rationalied and curtsied her way through her pain, but she had just been taken from the cruelest man on Earth. If looking into the eyes of a Lannister was akin to looking through the Stranger, looking into the eyes of Ramsay Bolton had been like looking at a massacre of men, played out at a wedding all for the lord’s enjoyment. The Stranger is an abstract; scary but intangible. Such a scene full of carnage was like Ramsay; sadistic, realistic and tactile. Sansa spent nearly the entire journey south thinking about the man she was taken from and the men she was taken by. 

She does have a brief conversation with the younger Lannister before they reach the capital. Aside from the logistics of finding her spare clothes and bandages, she had not been spoken to much by anyone. Because of this, she was startled when Sir Jaime asked her for her attention by clearing his throat on their last day of travel. 

“My Lady Sansa,” His voice, too, held the duality of safety and impending destruction. The depth of his speech reminded her again of her father but his accent and vocabulary reminded her that she was in a Lion’s den. 

“Yes, Sir Jaime.” Sansa’s voice was still hoarse from the marriage she had endured at the hands of the Boltons. Sansa, before she had learned to burrow within herself and access the freedom of her imagined flight, had screamed day in and day out for months. She wasn’t sure she would ever speak with the confidence and firmness she once possessed. 

“We will be arriving at the Capital shortly. My Lord Father requests your presence in his apartments once you have settled into your own rooms. I will escort you but I thought you would want to know.” He was looking at her now, she could feel his gaze on the side of her face like a burning hearth in the dead of winter. She did not yet want to look at him and break her concentration on the outside, possibly her last glimpse of it before her life is entirely lost to whatever the Lannisters want her for. 

She looks, though, and regrets it instantly. Cersei, Joffrey, and Jaime stare at her all at once. Cruel, sadistic and curious all at once. Tyrion’s eyes, funny enough, do not power through. He never did look like his family, he never acted like them either. She had thought him ugly before but now, she knew ugly and Tyrion’s-mismatched as they were-held the beauty of a Winter’s Rose. 

“I appreciate it, Sir.” She holds his gaze and watches as he seems to move to say more. When he doesn’t she moves back to her fantasized freedom. Many people had teased her and belittled her for being full of fantasy and imagination as a child, too interested in the tales of romance. And although Sansa now knew that the stories were not real, she continued to fall into her own fantasizing, using it as the shield her father had once provided, that Robb should have provided. As their party pulled up to the gates of King’s Landing, Sansa fell deep into her fantasy. She did not fall as a damsel or as a wife of a great king, she fell from high in the clouds. Her gaze shifted from the wood surrounding the city to clear blue sky. Her body was no longer battered and broken, no longer owned by another, she was her own being with wings that she moved and direction that she chose. She fell towards the Earth and in the last second caught her own wind, maneuvering through the currents at the speed far from proper for a Lady. She was a bird now. She let her tousled bony body fall again toward the Earth.  _ What if I do not stop myself? _ She thinks. She tumbles further and further, closing in on the hard ground that awaits. But all she sees is open land coming from open skies and  _ freedom.  _ She dives further and further toward the green of the trees. But the trees morph. Their green is no longer inviting. The green is cruel and it is sadistic and it is curious. It  _ wants  _ her to fall. At the last second she pulls with all of her strength against the currents of air and lands with a heavy impact only, her body is no longer small and compact. She is once again limbs and cloth and hair. She is not in the air, nor is she on the carriage seat. Sansa is on the ground, mere steps away from King’s Landing. Above her hovers the eyes of Jaime Lannister, so unlike the welcome of trees, and next to him stand Tywin Lannister. His eyes held all that his family’s eyes had held. However, through him Sansa sees an understanding. What he thinks he knows, she hasn’t the faintest idea.

She pieces together that in her daydream of comfort she must have fallen out of the carriage. She doesn’t feel the embarrassment she would have felt two years ago, standing in front of the mos noble family in the land, in front of the capital, in a dirty wool shift she had been rotating with two others for the duration of their journey. She feels no such embarrassment. She feels nothing. That is, until Tywin Lannister’s eyes of understanding look through  _ her.  _ Quietly, Jaime interrupts the intense interaction with one jarring fact.

“Her eyes turned white, Father.” Her fear does not fully manifest until Tywin has taken in this information fully, while looking through her, nodding slowly and smiling. 


	5. For the Dancing and the Dreaming

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tywin breaks the news to Sansa about his plans.

Sansa was escorted through the slums of the city to the Red Keep. Her body ached. The pain seemed to radiate from her feet and wind through her limbs like the branches of the Heart Tree encircling her mind entirely until her head throbbed. The journey to the castle was therefore a bit of a blur. She didn’t focus much on who was escorting her or where she was going. She figured they would take her to her old rooms, lock the door and throw away the key to prevent one of the last of the Starks from causing any more dissent. 

Sansa had tried to make peace with her reality months ago. She had ventured into her own fantasy world in order to cope with the reality she knew she would never escape. Although that reality was changed now, and Ramsay was no longer her keeper, she didn’t see how this family could be any better than her previous cage. Ramsay had been vindictive for his own gratification. The Lannisters had proven themselves capable of the same infliction of pain but for personal or political reasons. Sansa did not think her future was bright at the moment. At the very least she wouldn’t be marrying Joffrey because he had since been betrothed to Margaery Tyrell. This fact, however, did little to ease her mind because it meant she could once again be the pawn in the Lannister family’s game of power. 

Her musings, combined with her full body ache had distracted her from her arrival in a stately looking solar. It was most definitely not her old rooms, and she would wager the clothes on her back it wasn’t her new rooms either. She did not have much time to ponder her destination before her escort, who had been merely a shadow blocked out by her pain and racing mind, stepped out from behind her and sat down at the mahogany desk in front of her. The top of the desk was meticulously organized which a younger Sansa would have appreciated greatly. She always had found joy in keeping her belongings neatly placed together. And if she had been in a good mood as a child, she would have even helped her siblings tidy up. This was not Robb’s messy toy chest though, nor Arya’s rock collection, this was Tywin Lannister’s desk with Tywin Lannister behind it. She was lucid enough to know that he currently held her whole life in his hands and no pretty desk was going to phase her from that point. It was, however, difficult to focus on the man at the moment. Her head was pounding, probably the aftermath of her fainting spell, her body ached from the travel south and from the wounds still healing from her time with Ramsay. 

Sansa tried to ground herself by cataloguing the room. The walls were lined with tapestries all of a similar theme-lions, red and gold. Predictable. But, who was she to judge. There was a wolf on every wall at Winterfell. There were, at least, before they all had left. Now Winterfell was a shell of a place and Northern blood no longer resided there. Sansa vowed then and there that she would have a direwolf on her person at all times. If there was no one else to carry on their lineage, she would do it alone, even if it was small. 

Tywin, seemingly fed up with her lack of focus, called for her attention. “Lady Sansa, I would like to discuss with you the specifics of your residence in the capital before you retire for the day.” Sansa returned her focus to the man in the chair and did her best to swim through the pounding in her head. Sounds were sounding more and more distorted and her eyes were hurting. 

“Of course, My Lord.” She would have, had she been a different version of herself, peppered her response with flowery gratitude and flattery but she no longer felt capable of such frivolity and Tywin Lnnister of all people seemed the least likely to care. She expected a downgraded room. Restricted access to parts of the castle. No correspondence of any kind. 

“I will get to the point my Lady. You and I will be married at the end of the week.” 

Sansa had certainly not expected that. She had thought that perhaps she would be married off to a low lord so she would be unable to incite dissent but it seemed the Lannister's intended to keep her close to their chest. Terribly close. Sanse did the math in her head and swallowed deeply. She didn’t know exactly how old Lord Lannister was but she knew Sir Jaime to be about forty-five and herself to be fourteen and that math alone was scary and gods did she wish her head didn’t hurt so much. She knew he was old enough to be her grandfather. Her utter shock must have been blatantly displayed on her face because Lord Lannister continued. 

“We will not have miscommunication in this marriage, Lady Sansa. This match is to secure the North, the Riverlands and my legacy. Your marriage to the bastard Bolton is null now that he has perished. You will be provided for here in the capital until you conceive and give birth to our first son at which time you will go to Casterly Rock. Jaime will be your guard from here on out as I am somewhat aware of my daughter and her son’s feelings toward you and your presence. The two of them will not be an issue from here on out.You will be given the chambers adjacent to these ones and you will be expected to perform your duties as my wife. Am I understood, Lady Sansa?”

Sansa felt her pains radiate outward and her headache build in pressure. She managed a nod though. The information was overwhelming. She could feel the physical toll of her recent burdens still weigh her down as this new revelation took its place squarely on her shoulders. She felt as though she could wretch from it all. She just wanted her mother and brother. Gods, to see their faces again, even if it was just once, she could die a little less miserable. Instead, she would live as Tywin Lannister’s wife on the opposite side of the war as her family. She would have this man’s children and live where he wanted her. She would be the body while he was the administrator of her life. Sansa could hear a voice swimming through the currents of air surrounding her. It sounded like they were shouting but she was underwater. This was odd because she knew she was standing in the solar of the Lion of Lannister but looking around she saw the open air over the city. The sensations were all mixing together and her pain was resounding, overwhelming. She felt the fantasy land take her which had never happened before. It was like a divine hand had ripped her from reality faster than her body could process. Her eyes snapped back and her legs gave out and the voice faded away as she felt one final piece of evidence that she in fact existed when her body hit solid floor. Then, darkness consumed her. 


	6. Is iomaí cor sa tsaol.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Let me know what you think in the comments. Also, this chapter title is Irish for "There is many a twist in life." Enjoy!

Jaime was ordered to stand guard outside of his father’s new wife’s rooms. So, his step-mother? It still wasn’t sitting well with him that his father intended on following through with this plan. The Lady Sansa’s recent fainting spells also did not sit well with him. She was clearly malnourished and physically unwell from her time with Bolton but even those factors did not fully explain her sudden and shocking collapses-both within hours of each other. And her eyes, Jaime thought, her eyes were simultaneously the most remarkable and terrifying thing he had ever seen. Those crystal irises of hers, the same ones that had seen into his soul, disappeared from her face, the whites of her eyes having acted as a curtain, concealing them completely. 

Jaime hoped what he had seen had been his imagination, too many days on the road, anything other than reality. The legends of old spoke of a bloodline possessing the capability of convening with animals and even other people. The ability to warg had long been fantasy, an adventurous story to tell one’s kids. But if ever there was a bloodline to possess such an ancient ability it would be the Stark. Jaime hoped beyond hope that this wasn’t the case though, because Jaime knew that if Sansa Stark possessed the kind of ability that legend would suggest, then his father would fully utilize that ability-if he had figured out what Jaime was piecing together at the moment. And Jaime felt for this girl. He did not feel the need to subject her to any more of his family’s manipulations and abuses. 

As he stood guard at that very moment, pondering these things, Tywin was within the chambers behind him, having the Maester inspect Jaime’s new mother. A planned visit to ensure fertility as well as to ensure that she was not currently pregnant, the visit now included a health check in light of her fainting spells and the revealed extent of her abuse. Jaime found some comfort in the fact that no matter what his father planned, he would not abuse the girl the way Joffrey and Bolton had. Jaime did not have much time to question where all of this compassion was coming from for a child he did not know because the door he was guarding opened to reveal Tywin Lannister and the Maester. Behind them, a visibly anxious Sansa Stark sat atop her canopied bed. 

“There will be a wedding in the morning, Jaime. I expect you to escort the Lady to the sept and to my solar in an hour.” 

Jaime replied in the same way he replied to every request made by Tywin Lannister in that tone of voice.

“Of course father.”

Tywin left for his solar and the maester left for wherever they go-Jaime wasn’t positive where the maester lived now that he pondered it. This left the girl alone in the room and Jaime standing as the loyal guard he now was on the opposite side. He figured he was only just beginning to taste how his new job would be as guardian of his child-mother. Jaime sighed and resumed his post, wishing not for the first time that his family was a little less complicated. 

The next morning Sansa is washed and dressed in an elegant and impressive wedding gown. She had elected to keep her hair in the Northern style, swearing never again to subject herself to the twists and turns of high fashion in King’s Landing-even if that meant the maids loyal to the Lannisters were upset. If the Lannisters found her hair so offensive they could just get rid of her. It wasn’t like her existence could stoop any lower. She had not had very much time to process her coming marriage. It seemed that she was spending more and more time away from her reality, which in and of itself she didn’t really mind, but it meant that her reality-when she was brought back to it eventually, hit her square in the chest, as if an avalanche of winter snow would hit her head-on. Sansa was now facing the reality that at fourteen years old, she was moving on to her third engagement and her second marriage. If ever there was a time she felt like her entire being was worthless, it was now-preparing to be yet another man’s tool for his own advancement at her expense. From what she understood, Tywin Lannister would be using her for heirs and lands. This was not surprising by itself, the fact that it would be the Great Lion himself was more than a little off-putting. A more naive version of herself would have been appalled. A man old enough to be her grandfather, a Lannister no less, who is blatantly using her for her lineage and titles. But this slightly older Sansa, a girl who had been aged a decade by her relatively short stint without family and in the clutches of the enemy, all she saw was a potential for peace. 

Tywin Lannister seemed committed to her well-being, albeit clearly for his own selfish reasons. She had a personal guard loyal to Tywin alone, a man perhaps, but a man important to Tywin which gave her some level of assurance that he would work in his father’s best interest which, at the moment, was mostly hers as well. She was allowed healing treatment which was already more than Ramsay Bolton ever allowed her. And, even though she understood his motives very clearly, Tywin Lannister was the one to save her from the monster who stole her home. It wasn’t her mother or brother who possessed a full army of Northmen, it wasn’t her own father who made rash decisions that jeopardized them all, it wasn’t bold Arya or even Sansa herself. There had been no white knight, like she believed there would be in her childhood stories. There was a crimson knight, though. He spoke of profit and advantage and strategy, but he also killed the monster, barred off Cersei and Joffrey and provided her thus far, with more than acceptable living arrangements-all in exchange for a marriage. Sansa did not feel fear now, or even pain. She saw peace on the horizon for herself, and maybe even rest. Certainly, this was not an ideal situation but she learned from a young age that people are rarely allowed their ideal situation. 

It was for all of these reasons that Sansa walked through the Great Sept resigned to her fate. She knew what her immediate future looked like, and that by itself was enough to ease the constant anxiety she felt at the hands of Bolton who always kept her guessing. She was in Gold trappings and gold finery, mainly because the maids had decided her own red hair would clash considerably with any crimson gowns. They had given to her a heavy necklace, that held a large pendant depicting the head of a lion on it. When Sansa put the necklace on, her head bobbed down from the weight. She hoped to the high heavens that her second wedding was not long if only to preserve her neck. The wreath on her head was doing her no favors either. It had the appearance of leaves and flowers painted gold and placed dainty on the top of her head but the truth of it was that they were finely crafted pieces of solid gold, welded together into a hyper-realistic pseudo-crown, placed on her head to simultaneously present a Lannister front while also testing the strength of her neck and shoulder muscles. 

She wore heavily padded slippers and the Maester had given her tea with some sort of pain killing herbs that she hoped would activate soon. Her feet were still tender and her body still ached from her very recent departure from her first husband and both the physical and existential weight of her wedding was adding to her confused amalgamation of pain. Sansa walked slowly through the Sept and landed at the altar adjacent to her soon-to-be husband. She did not take much stock in the people in attendance, they certainly were not people she knew or cared about. Jaime Lannister had acted as a stand-in for her father which felt like an irony of sorts. Her soon-to-be son, old enough to be her father, walked her down the aisle like a father, to marry  _ his  _ father, in order to become  _ his  _ mother. There was certainly potential for a terrible tavern song in there. He fulfilled his duty well though, holding her arm in the crook of his elbow. He even dressed the part, decked out in crimson armor with a golden lion relief in the center breast plate. In fact, the entire audience of the wedding seemed to be swamped in a deep crimson. An unspoken dress code, Sansa supposed. This meant that Sansa stuck out like a sore thumb in every way. A golden drop in a sea of red, a red haired girl in a room full of golden haired Lannisters. She might have laughed right then. She was inverted. They all went gold on top and red on the bottom. She didn’t receive the dress code then. Sansa’s lips lifted a little at that thought. 

Her mouth returned to its stoic state when her eyes met those of her betrothed. He did not hold mirth in his eyes nor humor. He looked at her expectantly which confused her for a moment before she realized again that she was at her own wedding and the entirety of the Sept was waiting with baited breath for her to say her lines because he had presumably said his. Sansa thanked her younger self for memorizing those marriage vows word-for-word when she was just a small hopeless romantic. She let those words, which once had held so much meaning for her, spill out of her mouth in the quiet resignation she felt was conquering her entire disposition. She let that feeling engulf her as they were pronounced husband and wife, as the audience presented a demure applause, as they walked as one out of the Sept to the coming festivities, as she passed Joffrey and Cersei for the first time in over a year, and especially when she felt her new husband’s hand splay across her entire waist. 


	7. Acta non verba

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “It would be kind of me not to consummate this marriage tonight Lady Sansa, I know that.

The feast was held some time after the ceremony, allowing enough time for the courtly attendants to change into the appropriate finery for a reception as opposed to a ceremony. The eccentricity of the court was reflected in the king who held it. As always, the boy-king was adorned in Lannister gold, trimmed from head to toe in bloody-crimson velvet garments. His demeanor, much like his dress, was equally eye-catching, one might have even forgotten whose wedding they were at. But they would have quickly been relieved of their amnesia when the king’s pompous attitude turned on the musicians in attendance who had made the fatal mistake of singing a song similar to a well-known peasant’s song whose lyrics revere the North for its beauty. 

The boy-king, ever vigilant in sniffing out traitors, drew a bejeweled dagger, sheathed in gold and decorated in rubies, and made quick work of the bard’s tongue. The King’s Guard, at the behest of their liege, followed suit with the ensemble’s fingers. His majesty’s passion for blood was not quenched with the maiming of five peasants in the midst of his grandfather’s wedding. He quickly turned his intent on his new grandmother, demanding a proper  _ traditional  _ bedding. His majesty wanted  _ to see if grandfather got what he paid for.  _

The court, having spent the past hour heavily imbibing and observing their sovereign maim noncompliant individuals with a rather cavalier attitude,  _ happily  _ obliged their king without much thought. They, however, still understood the power dynamics at play and feared Tywin Lannister for his ruthlessness as much as they feared Joffrey Baratheon for his instability. Therefore, instead of disobeying the king, which would get them killed, or attempting to disrobe Tywin Lannister, which would also get them killed, they headed for the only option that appeased both parties; Sansa Stark. First, a hand was simply taken as if to offer a dance, and then her arm was grasped as if to escort her down the aisle again, and then it was too many to keep track of. They had her on her feet which put her at the disadvantage because her feet still burned but this prompted her to put her weight onto these strangers. A hand was now working on the shoulder of her dress, another lifting her skirt- wandering towards her stockings. 

She could vaguely here the remaining of the court enjoy the tradition taking place. Joffrey himself was yelling obscenities, requesting a better view, offering to show them how it was done. Sansa began to feel her chest tighten at how familiar this lack of control felt. She wasn’t sure anymore if the faces were those of nobility simply enjoying a wedding, or were they actually all Ramsay, taking great pleasure in her pain. Her confusion was lifted when a hand wandered to and then pushed into a sore bit of her back. The injury itself had come from a rather violent altercation with Ramsay months ago. Her back never quite aligned the same and so, occasionally, when she moved wrong, pain would shoot up her spine like a salmon swimming through the current. Now though, that pain was triggered not by a slight twist, but by a man trying to undress her. His hand had pushed into her vertebrae and Sansa immediately, instinctually, let out a sharp cry and nearly fell to the ground. She would have fallen if there hadn’t been so many people crowding her. 

This cry of distress was coupled with her immediate shifting of reality. She was no longer at her second wedding feast. She was in the confines of Winterfell. Ramsay was with her, holding her by the throat. Air was unable to escape from her lungs. The walls felt like they were caving in on her as he physically invaded every bit of her space, all while the pain in her back continuously shot through her nervous system from the continued contact with the hard ground. Sansa gets lost in the pain, in her own suffocation, in the closing space, in her miserable life when she is seemingly pulled through Ramsay Bolton, through the stone walls of Winterfell, through space and time itself until she is once again in King’s Landing, in the midst of her wedding feast and now, grasped firmly by her new husband, who had pulled her out of the bloodthirsty court and simultaneously, from the blood thirsty Ramsay. 

“There will not be a bedding ceremony. That kind of debauchery is no longer tradition and certainly is not fitting for the wife of the Hand of the King. My word is final.” Sansa watched, in amazement, at the pure authority and power Tywin Lannister was able to exercise over everyone in the room with merely his voice. And what’s more, she marveled at having that power and authority  _ in her defense.  _ She hadn’t had someone to defend her since her father’s death and although she was hyper aware of her circumstances, of her hyperventilating and her physical pain, she found herself to be  _ thankful _ for Tywin Lannister. He had saved her from the court, from Joffrey and from Ramsay-twice. Tywin Lannister terrified her for very many reasons but, he terrified everyone else just as much as well. It was in his best interest to keep her safe and that meant, if she complied with what he wanted, if she remained  _ profitable,  _ Tywin Lannister would turn that terror he wielded so well, onto those who would do harm onto her. 

Sansa was interrupted in the midst of her reverie by the gentle but firm push by her husband, toward the door. The adrenaline that had flooded her was the only thing that kept her upright as they made their way to his rooms in the Tower of the Hand. By the time they reached his rooms, her energy had depleted and she was near ready to lay down. She knew, however, that this was not to be the case on her wedding night. She just hoped that, no matter what happened, that it happened quickly. 

Sansa was standing in the middle of the rooms and looked around, waiting for instruction. Lord Lannister had disappeared, presumably to change, and so she was to do the same. She undressed down to her new white slip. She kept her slippers on because they  _ were  _ rather comfortable. She only had one braid on the crown of her head to undo and so she was finished preparing for bed before Tywin Lannister himself. She remained standing awkwardly in the middle of the room while fidgeting with the clothing she still had on. She examined the necklace she had been gifted, too afraid to take it off and place it in the wrong location and possibly anger her Lord. She began to softly drift into the kind of half-sleep that came with standing while exhausted when Tywin Lannister returned to his rooms, in his own sleep clothes. 

As he seemed to frequently do, he entered the room with a speech already on his lips: “It would be kind of me not to consummate this marriage tonight Lady Sansa, I know that. I know that you do not expect that or any sort of kindness from me or my family. I understand from your visit with the Maester some of what you have physically endured. He has advised me on the best ways to proceed. I want you to understand that I do not wish to be cruel to you in this marriage. My grandson’s showing tonight does not represent how I run this kingdom, nor how I will conduct this marriage. Do you understand that?” 

Like a child at the mercy of an intimidating Septa, Sansa nodded before he even finished the question and she did so with vigor, so as not to upset him. 

“With that being said, this marriage is political as much as it is beneficial. This court and the Lords of Westeros, as well as their conniving lawyers would seek any loophole in order to deprive me of the kingdom I have a significant claim to, now that we have married. I will not allow them these loopholes and this includes consummation.” His voice had begun like a call to his troops on the battlefield. It was strong, intentional and forceful. Now that he had reached his point, his eyes moved from their position, fixated on a spot off in the distance, to her own eyes at least a head and a half below his own gaze. His voice transformed into a softer but equally firm tone. 

“We will be consummating this wedding tonight, Lady Sansa. I assure you I will be gentle in light of your ailments and I will not ask this of you again in the near future. I need you to understand, I do not draw any sort of pleasure from your pain, in any form. After tonight I can promise you a great many things and I will deliver on them. Do you understand?” 

Sansa, once again, nodded silently like a child in attendance to a lesson. “Good.” She was then led gently by the same man who had slaughtered two entire households, nearly three if she included her own house, to the large bed in the center of the room. She was then laid down on the luxurious bedding facing upwards. She was struck, once again by the physically imposing image Tywin Lannister struck, despite his age. Sansa let her eyes wander past him into the canopy, intent on flying away. A whisper in her ear brought her firmly back to her reality. “I will be gentle, My Lady.”


	8. Festina Lente

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry for the hiatus! This past semester was simply not it. I hope to update more regularly and get this story moving soon! Thank you for sticking with the story! It really means a lot that anyone is reading it. As always, comments are really appreciated! Enjoy!

Sansa wakes up a married woman. _ A married and bedded woman,  _ her mind tells her. It wasn’t as she had thought it would be-the bedding. She knew what the act entailed, most definitely, but there had been so much... _ touching.  _ It startled her at first given that she had not experienced a touch with the intent of kindness or pleasure behind it in ages. And by a man, no less, Sansa had felt incredibly conflicted-to say the least. And it was this man in particular who had murdered hundreds if not, thousands-many of whom were her own blood. But for the briefest of moments, when his hands held her lean hips and moved down there, to her most private regions, and he did so without malice and he made her feel as though the world was crashing down but in the most satisfying way and just for a moment she wasn’t the traitor’s daughter, or Ramsay Bolton’s whore or the sister of Robb Stark or the Tully heir-she was just alive and it felt good. Gods it had been ages since she felt good-in any capacity but especially physically. 

But, simultaneously, while he was able to administer such attentions and to pull such pleasures from her- just as an artist is able to pull a masterpiece from the canvas-she could see in the hands that touched her and the eyes that peered down at her, all of the men that had died for this one man and  _ because _ of this man and all those who had suffered for his ambitions-herself included. The guilt that came crashing down in tandem with the pleasure was overwhelming. It was ruthless and unrelenting. And with each thrust, each burst of pleasure-all of which lasted into the early hours of the morning-that guilt abated for a few moments only to come roaring back like the riptide of the Narrow Sea when she came down from her high. By the time the Lord Lannister was done with her Sansa was so thoroughly confused by her thoughts, feelings and her body's pains and pleasures that she didn’t question the Lord’s rather strange actions. 

The Lord Lannister, after properly pleasuring Sansa to the point that she was unable to form a measly sentence, left the stately bed and made his way over to the large hearth where a pot was stationed. Sansa, fearful of being caught peering at him, did not see what he did but she did worry about his proximity to the fire and the metal stoker that, according to her months under Ramsay Bolton’s watch, would be an ideal  _ wife prodder.  _ Sansa, however, stayed in place in the bed, laying on her back and recovering from their activities that had ceased not moments before. She flinched only just slightly when Tywin appeared next to her side of the bed. Her tense muscles eased when she saw he was carrying a wet cloth and a chalice. She remained looking at him-whilst laying on her back which was supremely embarrassing as she reflected on the moment-awaiting his command, something she knew was expected of her. He did not disappoint in this respect. 

“Move the covers, Sansa.” Although it was certainly a command, it was done so in the softest tone she had ever heard him speak in. The hostility with which he spoke to his sons, with which he spoke of his daughter and even the king himself, was gone and in its place was a tired sort of compassion that confused Sansa greatly. Sansa, lost in marveling at the seemingly different man in front of her, felt him gently tap hand that was gripping the covers to her chest. She moved quickly then, with little thought to her nudity which was a habit at this point-a habit Ramsay instilled into her early on.  _ Your body is mine.  _ Tywin didn’t follow her reveal with violence though, as she was accustomed. He had placed the cup on the table beside the bed and moved the towel to her nether regions, watching her face the whole time as if to seek permission-or perhaps her mind was making that up. She nodded though. Hoping, perhaps, that that was what he wanted-consent. Tywin nodded back which made her relax enough to put her bed back down on the bed-trusting him not to severely harm her in any ministrations. He surprised her yet again when he took the towel to her thighs. It was warm and soft. Sansa registered in a delayed manner that he was cleaning his spend off of her. He brushed it over her womanhood but not for any other purpose than to cleanse. She did not realize until it was too late that the action was overwhelming for her. 

Sansa felt her breath begin to tighten and shallow, her chest hiccuped and before she could get it under control he noticed and stopped his proceedings. Once his emerald green eyes looked down at her again, away from the cleaning of her womanhood, she began to cry in earnest. She might have laughed as an onlooker at the fact that Tywin Lannister looked  _ alarmed _ at her. 

“Sansa, what is this about?” His tone was not panicked, it was inquisitive and pressing- a tone she imagined would be much similar to strategic questions asked in the heat of battle. She couldn’t get her emotions under control in this moment to answer however, which prevented her from answering. She could hear Cersei herself saying  _ stupid girl- a woman’s best weapon is between her legs-use it. Stupid girl. Stupid girl.  _ Sansa was never very good at using weapons. She knew there was probably some strategy to be had in the bedroom but all she could think was that when Ramsay used her, he made her keep the spend on her body for hours, if not days.  _ Stupid girl.  _ Ramsay would call her stupid too. His favorite thing to say though was pretty girl.  _ Pretty girl. Stupid girl, Pretty stupid girl.  _

“Sansa” It was like being called through the wind. His voice was present but not enough to call her back. Her body began to shake which tore her back into reality. Tywin was holding her shoulders and shaking her. 

“What was that, Sansa?” He was breathless and leaning over on the bed, hands on either side of her shoulders. 

“I-I don’t...I apologize, my Lord” She didn’t know what had come over her or how to communicate it to him. 

“I feel as though I deserve an explanation.” His tone was now unwavering, his eyes piercing and his hands were firmly gripping her shoulders. His close proximity was confusing her more and prompted her into her best explanation which was not an explanation at all. 

“He used to make it stay there. On me. I’m sorry.” She was still sniveling, now thoroughly embarrassed.  _ Stupid girl. Pretty stupid girl.  _

“I do not decipher code as a profession girl, you are going to have to be more specific.” And although his words were cutting, his tone betrayed him to be urgently concerned. 

“I-Ramsay. He didn’t clean me-I he.” She couldn’t form the sentences necessary to express that his kindness had been so shocking and different than Ramsay Bolton that she lost herself for a moment. 

By some mercy of the gods Tywin seemed to have understanding dawn on him. “Ramsay Bolton would require that his seed stay on you after copulating with you-is that it Sansa?” So thankful that she had not had to say the full embarrassing sentence out loud, she nodded a little too quickly. 

“I am sorry my lord. The kindness- it was- I was shocked-I it won’t-I won’t do it again.” Tywin sighed deeply at her whispered confession. 

“You do not need to apologize for the actions of that little shit Sansa. In fact, don’t. Do you understand me?” His tone was once again commanding and demanding and she did not intend to withhold at all so she nodded vigorously once again. 

“Good.” He reached for the forgotten cup on the side table and handed it to her. “This will help you sleep and help the pain.” She nodded slowly and drank it without question. She figured he wouldn’t poison her yet-she hadn’t given him anything yet. As she drank it she noticed her hands shaking and tried to suppress it. She was being stupid. It was nothing. She handed him the cup and awaited his next direction. 

Still standing beside the bed, Tywin peered down at her intently. “Sansa, you were mumbling to yourself a moment ago.  _ Stupid girl  _ were your exact words.” It wasn’t a question but she knew it really was. Not wanting to risk his temper she answered as best she could. 

“I was being stupid. I-I didn’t mean to disturb. I’m sorry, I won’t do it again I was being stupid.” Tywin looked as though he was going to argue-with what, she wasn’t sure-but his narrowed eyes and pursed lips pointed to a contrary notion. He didn’t though, and instead sighed and moved to the other side of the bed and under the covers. He must’ve felt her tension. Suddenly and without warning he breached the middle of the bed to her side and he  _ held her.  _ The sleeping draught he gave her began to take effect but she felt herself pressed against his chest with his arms wound around her tightly. And, looking back, she would attribute it to the draught, but she could’ve sworn she felt him kiss the crown of her head. 

Reflecting on her wedding night the next morning had her more confused about her new husband and her own mental state than she had been previously. She also felt the aches of the night before, somewhat mitigated by the draught from Tywin, and her previous aches and injuries. Her husband was absent from the chamber when she awoke and so she was left to her own devices. Or so she thought. As soon as she began putting her clothes on for the day, Tywin made an appearance in the chamber-surprising her greatly. Without reference to the night before or her current state of undress he informed her that he would be in his solar and he had a wedding gift for her when she was decent.

“Quickly now, Sansa. Lovely girl.” He made his way from the open doorway to her as he said it, and had her frozen to her spot in the middle of the room and only half dressed when he dipped down to kiss her on the crown of her head-leaving her utterly shocked. He then turned on his heel, as if he had only told her the time instead of displayed very out-of-character affection, and made his way back to the door. As the door closed Sansa spotted, with her own shocked wide eyes, her new son, Jaime Lannister-in full Lannister regalia- staring right back at her with equally shocked and wide Lannister green eyes. And with that, the door closed.


End file.
